


Alholowmesse

by objectlesson



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: All Hallows, Domestic Fluff, Family Dynamics, Halloween, Holidays, M/M, Old English Holidays, ReShirement, Traditions, Trick or Treating
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-13
Updated: 2020-10-13
Packaged: 2021-03-07 23:02:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,144
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26985622
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/objectlesson/pseuds/objectlesson
Summary: Thorin takes Sam and Frodo soulsing.
Relationships: (Preslash for Sam/Frodo), Bilbo Baggins/Thorin Oakenshield, Frodo Baggins/Sam Gamgee
Comments: 29
Kudos: 96





	Alholowmesse

**Author's Note:**

> This as a fictober I wrote for the prompt shire trick or treating! I did some research into old English traditions and the practice of going door to door for treats on Halloween was called soulsing in the UK and I love that?? anyway I cherry picked more history and lore to suit this. There will be a second chapter with more baby Frodo/Sam content, coming soonish.

It is not Thorin’s first Alholowmesse in the Shire. Fall has come and gone many times since he left his name and crown behind in Erebor, and he and Bilbo have spent every October the thirty first mulling wine and drinking it beside the fire, a bowl of baked treats and loose coins and apples from the tree at their feet. Whenever a fauntling comes knocking at the door, Bilbo grabs his mug in one hand and the bowl in the other, cheeks flushed sweetly from the wine as he strides to the porch of Bag End, smiling moon-bright as Thorin hangs back, fading into shadow, as it is best when people forget he lives here, too. 

Usually, the child outside recites lines of verse or does a dance for their reward, but sometimes they simply offer their bag in shy, trembling hands. Bilbo is not picky about the performance, not the way some hobbits are on Alholowmesse. He always drops something from the treat-bowl inside before sending them off, down the road to the next house. Then he shuts the door and returns to Thorin, face glowing in the heat of the hearth.

Thorin has never asked about the specifics of the holiday, because the lore behind the traditions do not matter to him, not really. Like nearly everything in Hobbiton, Alholowmesse is an excuse to eat and be merry, to celebrate the season’s harvest, to get raucously drunk and sing songs in groups on the stumble-home from the Green Dragon. Often, the holidays in the Shire blend together, and it is only the weather or the dishes which provide context enough for Thorin to keep them separate in his head. They are not like Darrow holidays, which are rich with ritual, with meaning. 

Part of him aches for history, for memory. But another part of him settles into a life that is comfortable, and redundant, and simple. It is a very nice cushion, after so many decades of thorns, and hardship. Plus, there is Bilbo, and Thorin knows with unwavering certainty that wherever he is, Thorin must be, too. 

Sometimes, Thorin carves shapes into pumpkins if there are enough to spare, so that they might place a candle inside to illuminate the garden. Otherwise, Alholowmesse has been night like any other: one he is lucky to be alive. One he gets to spend by Bilbo’s side, as their hair grows grayer, their joints stiffer, but their hearts fuller than ever before. 

However, this year is different, because Frodo is living with them, and that changes everything. 

He stole away into Thorin’s heart effortlessly, and now, he is the apple of his eye. Thorin adores him, and because Frodo is palpably excited for Alholowmese, Now, Thorin is, too. He watches with prudent eyes on the days leading up to it, offering advice as Frodo fusses over the clothes he will wear, the turnip he will pick to carve as a lantern to carry while soulsing. He and Sam chase each other around the garden singing, holding one another’s hands and spinning until they get dizzy and collapse into the freshly raked pile of golden leaves from Bilbo’s treasured oak tree. They practice their favorite rhyme, the one they will recite to receive their treat at the door: 

_upon the the night of a’hallowmesse_

_the spirits travel er’chill-ed breeze_

_they drift about from door to door_

_So we must too, begging treats,_

_so er-‘not stolen away by fae, evermore!_

Thorin gets the tune stuck in his head, sometimes. He finds himself peering at the turnips, too, tonguing the inside of his cheek thoughtfully as he imagines what he might carve into such a small, spherical surface. He marks Alholowmesse on the calendar, for the first time. 

The Night before the spirits are due to come, Bilbo rolls onto the balls of his feet so that he can lift the grizzled hair off of Thorin’s shoulders and press a kiss to the back of his neck as they stand in the kitchen, peeling potatoes for stew. “I suppose one of us will have to take Frodo and Sam out soulsing tomorrow night. I can do it if you don’t feel up to the task.” 

“Why not both of us?” Thorin asks, turning and encircling Bilbo in his arms, burying his face in the warm ditch of his neck where he smells most like himself. 

“Well, because _someone_ has to stay back and hand out treats. One should never leave one’s home unattended on Alholowmesse. If the spirits don’t sneak their way in, then meddlesome cousins will, and make off with the valuables,” he explains. 

Frodo, who has been quietly lurking somewhere close enough to spy, as he often does before dinner, rounds the corner with impossibly bright eyes. “I want Uncle Thorin to take me,” he announces, arms crossed. This is how Frodo lives: he is somehow quietly polite at the same time he takes up an enormous amount of space, declaring himself without shame, asking for what he wants, making a home. In so many ways, he reminds Thorin of himself. The best parts of himself, anyway. The parts worth cherishing. Cultivating.

“Is that so?” Bilbo asks with his fists on his hips, voice sharp with mock indignation.

“No _offense_ Uncle Bilbo, it’s only that no one will trip me and Sam, or steal our treats, if we have a fearsome looking dwarf with us as our guardian,” he says breathlessly, beaming as he spins over to the table and sits down in a mess of gangling limbs. He has dirt on his slacks, from playing with Sam out in the green while the Old Gaffer trims the hedges. 

“It’s settled then, you’re on soulsing duty,” Bilbo says, twisting one of Thorin’s braids around his index finger fondly before tugging him down to kiss. “Think you can handle all those judgmental stares and terrible whispers?” 

Thorin nods, humming lightly against Bilbo’s lips before he pulls away. “With pleasure.” Then, he turns to Frodo, getting on his knees so that they are nearly the same height. Frodo kicks the air on either side of him, and Thorin notices with a reflexive clench of love in his chest that there are bits of tar weed stuck in the hair of his feet. “I shall glower at them all. A perfectly intimidating bodyguard for my little pebble and his friend. Not a single fauntling in all of Hobbiton would dare to tease him.”

“Wonderful,” Frodo says as he throws his arms around his neck, squeezing him tightly enough Thorin cannot breathe for a few moments. When Frodo lets up he sighs, eyes fluttering shut at the comfort of knowing he is exactly where fate has brought him. Exactly where he _should_ be. His hair grows grayer, his joints stiffer, but his heart is fuller than ever before.


End file.
